On a recent podcast, my Special Guest Ben Rubin described how he could no longer bear to listen to Pink Floyd’s The Dark Side of the Moon. What he now finds untenable are lyrics like “Quiet desperation is the English way” which, with Awake hindsight, he realises is a sly invitation towards existential despair. Here a bestselling album - 45 million copies sold - is being used to programme its audience into that state of apathetic surrender which our Dark Overlords find so beneficial to their controlling agenda.

Obviously, if you are still a Normie, this is going to sound like hogwash. “C’mon. It’s just Roger Waters being Roger Waters. He’s just riffing on Henry David Thoreau’s ‘The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation’. You’re reading too much into this.”

Oh. Am I?

One of my jobs in my twenty-five or so years in the mainstream media was as a music critic. I reviewed hundreds of rock and pop albums, attended many dozens of gigs (including about 15 Glastonbury festivals) and interviewed any number of stars. I shared cocktails at 2am with Jimmy Page in the Beverley Hills Hotel and was so drunk when he agreed to do the interview immediately afterwards that I could barely ask a coherent question. I got abused as a ‘tad journalist’ by Lou Reed. I believed - though perhaps I shouldn’t have - Jon Bon Jovi that the secret of staying faithful to his wife on tour was regular masturbation. I smoked some of Tricky’s predictably excellent weed. I innocently asked Tracy Chapman whether she had a man in her life. (lol). I found Beck away with the fairies. I attended the excruciating premiere of ‘Sir Paul McCartney’s’ Liverpool Oratorio. I pissed off Dave Gilmour by telling him my favourite Floyd album was Atom Heart Mother. I saw REM’s legendary Bingo Hand Job gig. I took Stephen Fry to see EMF play Unbelievable…

But just because I’ve been there, done that, doesn't necessarily mean I had the slightest clue what was going on behind the scenes. In fact I know I didn’t. I was, as most of us are, under a spell. Also, I believed like the reporter in The Man Who Shot Liberty, that ‘When the legend becomes fact, print the legend.’

When you’ve been so deeply immersed in pop culture for so long it becomes hard to quit the addiction. All these heroes - Bowie, Led Zeppelin, Radiohead, Underworld, Eat… - have written the soundtrack to your life. Rejecting them is like discarding parts of yourself, your personal history, some of your most treasured memories. Which is why not just Normies but even many Awake people are so resistant to the notion that, yes, even the music industry is part of the psyop. Indeed not just even the music industry but most especially the music industry. It exists to grab you, sneak under your skin, at the very moments in your life when you are most susceptible: you’ve just broken up with your partner; you’re off your face on drugs; it’s your birthday; you’re bored; you’re cruising down the highway and your brain is wide open. That is why music is so particularly valued by the Dark Overlords. They’re not doing it because they love you, you realise?

Most of us who’ve been down the rabbit hole know this - up to a point. We know how dangerous, evil and manipulative the music industry is. We know what went down at those P-Diddy parties. We know that Lady Gaga is - probably - a bloke. And that so - probably - is Taylor Swift. We’ve probably read Dave Goldman’s Weird Scenes Inside The Canyon, which blew the whistle on the CIA-manufactured origins of the entire Peace & Love West Coast music scene. We might even suspect that Paul is dead…

But still far too many of us supposedly Awake types want to have our cake and eat it. We are afflicted with what I call ‘But Not Kate Bush’ Syndrome. That is, we perfectly well accept that pretty much every star in the musical firmament is a mind-controlled, soul-selling stooge of the beast system. Just not our personal favourite artistes who are magically exempt because their music is so great it couldn’t possibly have been written for them by the Tavistock Institute and because they have such compelling backstories that they must be genuine talents who emerged naturally, rather than having been created by a committee of mind-bending technocrats run by the Illuminati.

I understand this impulse for I too would like to believe that there is nothing weird and sinister and occultist about our Kate. And I’d dearly like to believe the same thing about David Bowie, not least because of the hours I invested of my precious youth getting into him. My brother Dick and I made it one of our projects. Obviously we already liked Ashes to Ashes because it was the top of the charts at the time with that cool video on the beach featuring various New Romantics dressed as nuns and the line we mistakenly thought said ‘I ain’t got no money and I ain’t got no hands’. But we had to work hard on some of the earlier stuff. “Yeah, I really like Life On Mars and Oh You Pretty Things but I’m not such a fan of Quicksand or Bewlay Brothers.” “Don’t worry, you’ll get there. I think Bewlay Brothers is now almost one of my favourites.”

But I think we need to be honest with ourselves, we Awake Bowie fans and judge our hero according to the same rigorous criteria we apply to all the other conspiracies out there. Are we really to believe - honestly? - that the guy who began one of his songs ‘I’m closer to the Golden Dawn/Immersed in Crowley’s uniform” and concluded, gnostically, that ‘Knowledge comes with death’s release’ was one of the goodies?

There’s a reason why we pored over those gnomic lyrics. Because they were meant to be pored over and mulled upon and eventually absorbed into our vulnerable adolescent consciousness. It wasn’t an accident that they messed with our heads and made us feel weird and rebellious and dissatisfied and alienated. That was the whole point.

Same goes for Pink Floyd. I’ve watched so many documentaries about the Floyd, read so many books, listened to so much of their music that of course I can give you the fanboi/muso chapter-and-verse on their early experimental days at the UFO club, the tragic tale of Syd, the miraculous marketing power of their sleeve designers Storm Thorgerson and Aubrey Powell and so on and on through the floating pigs and on to The Dark Side of the Moon which (if you don’t count The Bodyguard soundtrack, which I don’t) is still the world’s biggest selling album after Michael Jackson’s Thriller and AC/DC’s Back in Black. But so what? Given what we know about the music industry how are we to trust a single word of what it tells us about itself? Remember that quotation about printing the ‘legend.'

It’s the stuff They don’t - and won’t - tell you about the music industry that we should focus on, not the stuff They put out in press releases and back-slapping, chin-stroking retrospective documentaries on the Sky Arts channel. Obviously it’s rarely going to be spelled out for you, except in stuff that occasionally slips through the net like the obscure interview where Dylan ruefully describes his pact with the ‘chief commander.’But it’s not as if They don’t offer plenty of clues - because of that Satanic/Luciferian obligation They have to ‘reveal the method’ and to hail the object of their true allegiance.

That Wish You Were Here cover, for example. Designed by Hipgnosis (geddit?). What’s all that about, do you reckon? Well the official narrative, of course, encourages you to focus on the crazy creative genius of Storm Thorgerson, or the difficulty of setting up the shot with the stunt actor in the flame retardant costume. But the real meaning is obvious when you see it, as someone kindly explained to me in the comments on my Substack the other day.

The deal-sealing handshake with the flaming man? Yup. It’s about the same thing Bob Dylan is on about in that interview I mentioned. And the same thing Freddie Mercury is singing about in Queen’s most famous track Bohemian Rhapsody. Sure, Bohemian Rhapsody spent weeks at number one because it’s incredibly catchy with some sublime vocals from Freddie and some great guitar breaks from Dr Poodle Hair Badger Botherer and its air of cod-operatic, kitsch sophistication. But it also got there because that’s what They like to do: to shove their clandestine message right in your face so as to mock you with the obviousness you are yet too stupid to understand.

“Beelzebub has the devil put aside for me.”

Gosh. What can that possibly mean?

We all know that to get a record deal you have to sell your soul. It’s a part of music lore.

But the reason it’s part of music lore is because they want the secret hidden in plain sight. That is, by telling you about the pact with the devil, they want to make the mature, discerning, rational part of your brain to go: “Well of course they don’t mean literally a pact with the devil. It’s just a trope. A metaphor. Goes back to the days of Robert Johnson etc. etc.”

Meanwhile, selling their souls to the devil is exactly and, yes, literally what all successful musicians have done in return for their career and to which they cannot help alluding now and again because, as they often come to appreciate more as they get older - see eg late career Johnny Cash - it’s not necessarily the most edifying or long-term beneficial of exchanges.

Before he was cast out of heaven for leading one third of the angels in rebellion, Lucifer was in charge of music. Or so I’ve heard and it does make sense. It’s no accident that Stairway to Heaven sounds so moreishly addictive. Nor Hotel California. That music was personally supervised by his Satanic majesty, the god of this world, patron of axe maestros from Jimmy Page to Keith Richards, and deliberately, through sundry cunning wiles and much diabolical skill, made so attractive in order to make you want to take more drugs and have more sex with lots of unsuitable partners.

That’s the devil’s job. To entice you towards sin. And he’s really, really good at it. If sin were easy to resist we’d have no trouble resisting it. Unfortunately, sin is very closely aligned with all the things our fleshly bodies find most agreeable and which, by spooky coincidence, pop music tends to celebrate: rhythmically-enhanced hedonism, gluttony, profligacy, druggy abandon, alcohol abuse, degeneracy, rebellion (let’s not forget who the first rebel was…) and, of course, lashings and lashings of sex.

“How could something that feels so good be so wrong?”, people are wont - half tongue-in-cheek - to enquire. But the answer is contained in the question.

So, all those ‘fundamentalist’ Christians we were encouraged to mock were right all along. Pop music is the work of the devil. Once you understand this, everything about the music industry - the characters it promotes, the behaviour it encourages, the effects it has on you - makes so much more sense.

I sometimes used to wonder, for example, why all the music I used to love listening to - and I really did have excellent, recherché taste: In The Aeroplane Over The Sea by Neutral Milk Hotel, that kind of thing - made me sort of happy but never, ever so happy as I would have liked it to have made me. There was always something in it that was slightly off, something that said: “Yes, of course you are enjoying this but you realise the best is over, don’t you?” You get this feeling especially, I find, with my all-time favourite rock band Led Zeppelin. And the reason for this, I suspect, is explained in this superb essay:

https://ursulabielski.substack.com/p/stairway-to-hell-the-spiritual-and

by Ursula Bielski - Stairway to Hell: the Spiritual and Cultural Costs of Led Zeppelin.

Bielski is a Christian, a Catholic more specifically, so is equipped to understand the supernatural warfare being waged against us through songs like Stairway to Heaven which, it appears, may have been dictated to Robert Plant from the spirit realm.

It was 1970, and Jimmy Page was sitting in an old country house with bandmate Robert Plant, a fire flickering in the hearth. A storm rolled in outside, the wind rattling the windows, shadows shifting in the corners. The two musicians had been writing, playing, waiting for something to emerge. And then, without warning, it came.

Robert Plant, in a trance-like state, picked up a pencil and began to write. Words spilled onto the page as if they were being whispered into his ear. He barely remembered thinking them, barely recognized his own hand as it moved.

He pushed the page over to Jimmy. In the flickering light, Page read the words aloud:

"There’s a lady who’s sure all that glitters is gold…"

Later, the two would try to describe how the song—“Stairway to Heaven”--was not composed in the usual way. It was not labored over or refined.

It was received.

The Devil, infamously, cannot create (which is God’s prerogative), all he can do is imitate. I wonder whether perhaps that isn’t the problem I’m trying to identify with the work of Led Zeppelin. It’s a simulation of divine ecstasy, but it’s not the real thing.

There may be other factors at play too, here, one of them being pitch. We discuss this on my podcast with Conspiracy Music Guru, one of several Awake musicians to have noticed that music tuned to 432 Hz has warm, healing qualities whereas the current industry standard of 440 Hz unsettles you. And if you really want to go down the frequency rabbit hole, I commend this eye-opening essay by Agent131711, but read this one first. In it, Agent131711 argues that the chord sequences in different music genres are calculated to cause specific ill-health problems in their target audiences. Hip hop is designed to destroy your immune system; rock and country is designed to cause cardiovascular disease and cancer. Apparently. It’s a good read anyway.

Anyway, to return to the point from right at the beginning: yes, I agree with Ben Rubin that there is nothing innocent about albums like Dark Side of the Moon. Anything that is allowed to get that big - same rule applies to movies, books, celebrities - does so with the full approval of our Dark Overlords. And what is good for them is definitely not good for us.

Does that mean, then, that when Roger Waters sat down and wrote that line ‘Quiet desperation is the English way’ he was going ‘Mwahahahaha! This will destroy them, those poor ignorant hippie fools! How little they understand our Satanic masterplan!’? No, of course it doesn’t. Rather I think the creative process here was not dissimilar to the one that went into the composition of Stairway To Heaven. Once artistes have made the Pact - as Waters would certainly have done by this stage of the Floyd’s career - they tap in to a kind of Satanic consciousness. It gives them a creative helping hand (the devil, after all, has all the best tunes) but at the same time it exerts a slily corrupting influence and steers the product in a particular direction.

It’s what people don’t understand about conspiracies. The line you’ll often hear expressed by Normies is: “But look, people just aren’t that competent. No one could ever arrange a conspiracy on such a scale.” And they’re right, up to a point. No one human could…

‘Time will tell” is one of my least favourite phrases, especially when - as so often - I see it being deployed by some semi-awake person on social media urging us to be more cautious with our gloomy prognostications because, hey, it’s too early to judge and we might yet be pleasantly surprised.

I dislike it for various reasons. One is its aura of self-satisfied reasonableness, with its implication that this person considers himself to be more measured and more worldly in his judgements than the fools-rushing-into-judgement hotheads he is lightly chastising.

Another, is that it is a pusillanimous, fence-sitting excuse for delaying action and, potentially, addressing the problem that has been identified while it’s still early enough to counter it.

But I think my most particular objection is that it is so ineffably Normie. That is, it subscribes wholesale to the false paradigm that history is just a series of random events which no one could possibly predict. Most people think this way, I know, because it’s what we’re repeatedly told. But there’s really no excuse for any person whose eyes are open to go on thinking this way. Is it not, after all, one of the most entry-level discoveries you make on your journey down the rabbit hole, that almost no major event happens by accident because almost everything is pre-planned?

So to Donald Trump who, amazingly, despite all the predictions to the contrary by lots of experts on Twitter etc, has somehow survived the machinations of all those Dark Forces bent on denying him a second term as US president and actually been inaugurated.

Whoulda thunk? Well I, for one, and if there’s a trace of boastfulness in my tone it is entirely unmerited. I knew Trump was going to make it not because I am Nostradamus but because it was bleeding obvious that his victory had been preordained by the Powers That Be.

This had nothing to do with the voters. (If it had been, he would have beaten Biden in 2020). It had everything to do with The Plan which, it is now becoming clearer, required Trump to spend a performative four years in the wilderness while a growing body of Americans wailed and gnashed their teeth at the ravages inflicted on their great country by a senile, incontinent child-sniffer - or, rather, various actors in masks playing a senile, incontinent child-sniffer - controlled from behind the scenes by Satanic high priest (and homosexual Kenyan) Barack Obama.

The faked - sorry but it was! - assassination attempt was part of this softening up process. Do you remember how, in the run up to the elections, there were all sorts of rumours doing the rounds that Trump would never get to enjoy a second term as president because ‘They’ would never let him? Either the Biden administration would cook up some national emergency, a new ‘pandemic’ say, to close down the polling booths or even cancel the election altogether. Or ‘They’ would simply assassinate him.

Well that was one of the reasons they went to all that trouble to stage it: to whip even doubters into a frenzy of yearning for a saviour figure. Just in case anyone had missed it, Trump re-emphasised this point at his inauguration when he declared “I was saved by God to make America great again.”

If this is what you believe, then I strongly recommend that you don’t watch or listen to this analysis of Trump’s second term prospects by the Nations Conspire channel on YouTube.

It notes that the ‘golden age’ promised by Donald Trump is worryingly similar to the ‘golden dawn’ promised by the dark magician Aleister Crowley and thence by the New Age movement. But will this prove to be the false light we are warned about in scripture and will Trump turn out to be one of the false prophets whose seductive message will deceive even many Christians?

I’m banking on ‘yes’ and believe me, this is not a ‘yes’ of enthusiasm. I don’t want the world to go to hell any more than the next parent or grandparent does. I’d so much prefer it if Donald Trump turned out to be the guy who was going to sort out all this mess and make not just America but the whole planet great again.

Trump - or if you want to be cynical, the machine that controls Trump - understands our desperation for things to get better, and plays on it. Hence, for example, that crowd pleasing promise that from henceforward his government would recognise only two genders.

Yes - like his remarks about green energy, about uncontrolled immigration, about ending the war in Ukraine - this is obviously a good thing. But the point people miss when they’re punching the air, going, “Yay! Finally a politician who is speaking my language” is that they’re watching the political equivalent of a pro-wrestling performer striding into the ring to play his good guy role. We’ve had four years of the bad guy - the incontinent clown who pooped himself when he went to visit the Pope - who allowed the swarms across the border and let his State Department escalate the war in Ukraine and let the transgender freaks run riot. Now comes the orange man wearing the white hat to clean everything up and make everything nice again.

That’s the idea, anyway. And lots of people buy it because we like to believe in fairy stories with a happy ending. But I’m not one of them because, though I used to be a fan of Trump I have since read and watched much to make me suspicious about his true nature and his true purpose.

If Operation Warp Speed wasn’t a tell - c’mon: are we really to applaud the guy that fast-tracked the death jab that killed tens of thousands and incapacitated millions? - then that bizarre inauguration really ought to have been. To me it looked liked an occult ritual ushering in the age of Lucifer.

All that bronze make-up Trump wore, for example. We’re so used to Trump being strange looking - “Orange Man” - and talking in that strange, dislocated way, like he’s channeling spirits or he’s part of an MK Ultra experiment, that we’ve ceased to find anything he says or does truly extraordinary or weird. “It’s just The Donald being The Donald,” we think. This gives him cover to act out all manner of seriously bizarre occult ritual under the full gaze of a bedazzled, hypnotised public so determined to give him the benefit of the doubt that they affect not to notice anything strange. Like, maybe, when the next president of the USA begins his term with his face shimmering gold like the incarnation of Lucifer himself.

And if anyone does point out that something’s not right, they make excuses for him. Was it not a bit disturbing that rather than place his hand on the Bible when he swore his oath, Trump instead let his wife - dressed in Masonic black and white - hold it beside him? Well apparently not. It was all OK because the oath was rushed and Trump just didn’t have time to move his hands across that vast, six-inch gulf to grab the Bible Melania was holding. People actually believed this.

There was similarly bizarre excuse making for Trump’s son, Eric. His flashing with his hands of the Illuminati power symbol, the inverted triangle, was so blatant that his wife had to have a quiet word in his ear. Almost all world leaders, Trump included, make this gesture whenever they are on the public stage, to reassure their dark overlords as to where their true allegiances lie and, simultaneously, to indicate their contempt for all those billions of useless who have not the slightest clue what the hand gesture means. But when sharp-eyed rabbit holers pointed this out on Twitter, Trump fans were all ready with their excuse. Eric was just trolling the Illuminati. Apparently.

Matthew warns us in his gospel:

For there shall arise false Christs, and false prophets, and shall shew great signs and wonders; insomuch that, if it were possible, they shall deceive the very elect.

No disrespect to all you very elect out there. But over the next four years I’d say one or two of you are going to be in for some very nasty shocks.

Do you know what it’s like to be the only panellist on a live BBC TV debate show speaking up about Muslim rape gangs? I do and I still shudder at the memory.

It was on a youth programme called - I kid you not - Free Speech and, as you’d expect of the BBC, the panel was stuffed with a representative selection of modern British archetypes: a leftist; a hard leftist; a green; a Muslim; an ultra hard leftist; a radical Muslim; etc. And then, representing the entire spectrum from conservatism to libertarianism, me.

I can’t say my comments went down terribly well with most of the multi-ethnic studio audience. At least one bearded guy near the front, I remember, was wearing a sweatshirt with “I heart Sharia” on it. When I brought up the Muslim rape gangs I might as well have been talking about unicorns because, to judge by the general response - including from the woke presenters - I was describing a purely imaginary problem.

Obviously I knew I wasn’t because I’d spent a long time looking into it and writing articles about it. I’d read the official inquiry reports, the case studies, the investigative journalists, even spoken to some of the witnesses and victims. It was shocking, horrific, inexcusable - the sort of thing that you might imagine would never have been allowed to happen in a ‘civilised’ Western democracy where the rule of law applied.

Essentially, over a period of decades going back at least to the 1980s, loosely organised gangs of mostly Muslim men in towns all over Britain were predating on mostly white and Sikh girls, most of them underaged, and drugging, torturing and raping them, often gang-raping them, again and again and again. And the system allowed these evil predators to get away it, partly because potential whistleblowers were frightened of being called racist, but mainly because the authorities were complicit. The local councils, the police, even the child protection services either turned a blind eye or, sometimes, actively participated in these crimes.

That’s why I wasn’t afraid to poke my head above the parapet on that TV programme. I didn’t care if the BBC wanted to caricature me as a far-right Islamophobe. What mattered was that we stopped turning a blind eye to this behaviour and that, especially, we stopped institutions like the BBC gaslighting the public into believing that the problem wasn’t widespread.

Anyway, a few weeks later, I felt sort of vindicated. I was hurrying down Oxford Street, about to catch the tube home, when a lovely girl standing outside a pub suddenly grabbed me and gave me a hug. “Thank you for speaking up for us!” she said. She was a Sikh girl and she knew all about the rape gangs.

The reason I tell you all this is not to demonstrate how brave and amazing I am. But rather to offset any criticism I might incur from all those readers who think it’s bloody great that everyone, even people in America, even Elon Musk, is finally talking about those evil Muslim rape gangs.

Indeed, Elon has been trolling the subject on Twitter like a boss.

In one retweet, he has brought to public attention the awful fate of 16-year old Lucy Lowe, raped from the age of 14 by a taxi driver called Aznar Ali Mehmood, then murdered with her mother and her disabled sister in a house fire. (This happened in 2000)

In another retweet, he has shown a picture of UK prime minister Keir Starmer with, superimposed over his face, “I FACILITATE CHILD RAPE”.

In yet another retweet, he has broadcast (to his 210.4 million followers) the following message:

British girls are being sacrificed on the alter [sic] of multiculturalism, and the perpetrators are being protected.

Fight back British man.

Now it’s not that I disagree with any of the sentiment here. Organised rape gangs are an evil and should never have been allowed to get away with it for as long as they have. Keir Starmer undoubtedly has many skeletons in his cupboard from his stint as head of the Crown Prosecution Service where he turned a blind eye not just to child grooming gangs but also to the activities of Jimmy Savile. Yes, multiculturalism has been a disaster (as it was always planned to be).

Rather, my objection is: why now?

The rape gang issue is one that anyone, anywhere could have got worked up about in at least the last forty years. It’s not some new and terrible thing about which the details are only just emerging. And if we’re going to blame political parties, the former Conservative government was at least as reluctant to address the problem as the current Labour one is.

No. There’s an ulterior motive behind all this confected outrage, currently being hyped to the max on social media, Twitter especially.

I suspect it has a lot to do with the global swing to the authoritarian right which has long been planned by the Powers That Be - hence Donald Trump being allowed to win his latest presidential election (where he wasn’t in the election before that), and Nigel Farage very obviously being teed up to be Britain’s next prime minister, leading the fake alternative Reform Party.

And possibly also it is part of the general psyop designed to persuade us all that Muslims are so barbaric and dangerous that we shouldn’t worry too much about the ones currently being genocided in Gaza, or the ones that will die when the West finally gets to enjoy its long-planned war with Iran.

Elon Musk is not your friend. He’s a technocrat; a transhumanist; probably a Satanist; definitely a liar.

If he says stuff you like to hear it’s not because he’s a groovy guy who shares your values. It’s because he thinks you’re a gullible idiot whom he can twist round his little finger.